Rogue Commander, page 3
part #3 of Titus Black Series
“Where—where are we?” she asked.
Black chuckled. “You’re in a five-star luxury hospital bed in Maldives.”
“Wait. What?” Shields asked with a scowl.
“I’m just messing with you. The truth is you’re in a rundown clinic in Yemen, sleeping off the effects of hydrogen sulfide poisoning.”
She groaned. “I was really hoping the past twenty-four hours was just a bad dream.”
“That makes two of us.”
“So, what now?”
Before Black could answer, a loud commotion arose from inside the clinic’s triage. Black hustled over to the door and then placed his ear against it.
“What is it?” Shields asked.
“Hold on a second,” he said. “I’m trying to hear.”
“Where are they?” one man shouted in Arabic. “Where are the Americans?”
Someone answered in a soft voice, and Black was unable to hear what was said. But whatever the person said, it only made the man angrier.
“I know they were here. Where are they now?” the man demanded.
“Someone’s here—for us. Let’s go.”
Black and Shields hustled down the corridor before exiting through the same route they’d snuck back into the building. They wove down the alley until reaching a street bustling with the morning activity. Vendors set up their kiosks, while produce merchants jostled for position along the sidewalk with their wheelbarrows piled high with fresh food. Horns echoed off the buildings crowding the narrow thoroughfare.
“Do you know where we’re going now?” Shields asked.
Black shrugged. “I’m assuming the MI-6 safe house you know about.”
“Yeah,” she said, “and it’s that way.” She tugged on Black’s arm before rushing toward a bus pulling up to the curb. The public transit vehicle was so packed that people were hanging off the side. Some riders were able to grab little more than a few inches of a handle and stand on a runner with just enough space to fit the width of their feet.
“We’re gonna ride on that thing?” Black asked.
“You got a better idea?”
Black peeked over his shoulder before darting toward the bus and the mass of humanity crammed inside. “Let’s do it.”
Ten minutes later, Shields jabbed Black in the ribs, prodding him to disembark. He handed the attendant some cash for both of them and then jumped onto the sidewalk.
“That felt more dangerous than getting shot at by combatants.”
“Yet we survived. Now, follow me this way.”
Shields led him down several corridors nestled between apartment buildings.
“How are you feeling?” Black asked.
“Not bad for someone who was poisoned yesterday.”
“How well do you know this MI-6 agent we’re staying with? Is he trustworthy?”
“I’ll let you be the judge of that.”
They continued on in silence until they reached a red door. Shields knocked hard on it before looking up at the security camera. She waved and flashed a smile. Seconds later, Black heard a click and then Shields shoved the door open.
“Come on,” she said, waving him inside.
Once in the house, she headed straight for the stairs. Black stayed right behind her. When they reached the landing, a dark-haired man smoking a pipe was waiting for them.
He removed the mouthpiece and opened his arms wide. “You made it, love. I thought I’d never see you again.”
Black furrowed his brow. “Love?”
The man chuckled. “Ah, yes. You must be Agent Black.”
“And what gave me away?” Black asked.
“Christina told me that her partner was the jealous type.”
Black cocked his head to one side. “Did she now?”
She eyed him closely. “You’re kind of proving my point right now.”
Black shrugged. “I’m fiercely protective of my partner, but not like you think.”
“Agent Durham,” the man said, offering his hand to Black. “Let’s let bygones be bygones, shall we?”
“Of course,” Black said. “I don’t want to be here anymore than you want us here.”
Durham shot a sideways glance at Shields. “Well, I wouldn’t say that’s true for both of you.”
“We need to get out of here as soon as possible,” Black said. “Can you contact our pilot for us to arrange for transportation in the morning?”
“That is short, sport,” Durham said. “I’ll see what I can do.”
Durham wandered out of the room as he dialed a number on his cell phone.
“I don’t like that guy,” Black said in a hushed tone.
“I’m sure the feeling’s mutual,” Shields said while walking toward the sofa. She sat down. “I need some more sleep.”
“Of course,” Black said. “I’ll handle Mr. Bean over here and—”
“Durham talks way too much to be Mr. Bean—and mostly about himself.”
Black nodded. “You’re right. Maybe I should call him Austin Powers.”
“That’s more appropriate.”
“So you don’t like this guy either? I was under the impression that—”
Shields smiled wryly. “I know you were. It was fun letting you think that. You’re cute when you’re all overprotective of me. Now, you can keep an eye out while I rest.”
“Lucky me.”
“Yes, maybe you and Austin Powers can talk about all your exaggerated adventures.”
Black shrugged. “Or maybe, Miss Sassy, we’ll work together and prank you while you sleep.”
Shields groaned and stood up. “I’m going to bed now. Wake me up when it’s time to eat lunch.”
“Before you go, where’s the book?” Black asked.
Shields fished the diary out of her pocket. “I’m holding onto this. Cryptography isn’t your specialty. I’ll work on it later this afternoon.”
Black spent the rest of the day talking with Durham about the state of affairs in Yemen as well as probing him for any information he had on The Ghost. Durham had crossed paths with him several times in the past, once when they were apparently both assigned to kill the same man. But Black didn’t learn anything of real substance that could lead to capturing the illusive assassin.
Just before dinner, Shields flung open the door to her room and raced into the living room.
Black looked up at her and furrowed his brow. “Are you all right?”
Shields stared at him wide-eyed while wearing a big grin. “I think I found something.”
“You were supposed to be resting,” Black said.
“When have you ever known me to do what I’m supposed to do? Now, do you want to hear about this or not?”
“Of course I do.”
“I don’t have everything, but I was able to decipher some coded language within the book.”
“And what’d you find?”
“Well, The Ghost isn’t who we think he is.”
Black cocked his head to one side. “How so?”
“There isn’t a single reference to anyone by that handle in this book,” Shields said. “Instead, all the hander’s notes call him ‘The American’.”
“We always thought The Ghost was a former KGB agent.”
“Nope,” Shields said. “He’s one of our own.”
CHAPTER 4
Key West, Florida
J.D. BLUNT LOOKED SKYWARD as he adjusted the sunglasses on his nose. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with fresh ocean air before jamming an unlit cigar into his mouth. Seagulls squawked overhead as he lumbered down the dock toward the retired Col. Clyde Underhill’s fishing boat.
“The Sea Ranger,” Blunt said, reading the name emblazoned on the back of the vessel. “How discreet.”
Underhill, who was arranging the rods inside the boat, stopped and turned to look at his client. He wasn’t wearing a shirt but sported an Atlanta Braves baseball cap and a pair of Raybans.
“Look what the cat dragged in,” Underhill said.
“I’m a cat that can pay.”
“If I would’ve known you were scheduling an outing this morning, I would’ve demanded double what I charge from most of these schmucks I take out.”
Blunt chuckled. “You haven’t changed a bit. And you don’t look a day over seventy.”
“I’m sixty-eight, and I can whip your ass whenever I want,” Underhill said, flexing and showing off his pecs. “And don’t you forget it.”
Underhill waited until Blunt was aboard before untying the boat from the dock. As they navigated through the no wake zone, Underhill made small talk. They had met when Blunt was serving on the Senate’s Intelligence Committee and Underhill was commanding the 75th Ranger regiment in Fort Benning. Their affinity for history, particularly Revolutionary War battles, created an instant bond that lasted long after Underhill retired. The Colonel saw the writing on the wall when he was passed over for a promotion to the Pentagon and decided to call it quits on his Army career. He settled in the Keys and opened a fishing charter business.
“Is this how you always imagined your retirement?” Blunt asked as they puttered toward the ocean.
“What? Charging eight dollars a can for watered down beer while helping old rich guys catch trophy fish? Yeah, this is exactly how I imagined it.”
“Look, you should’ve gotten the Pentagon job, that much was obvious by everyone in the know.”
Underhill winced and shook his head. “Somehow General McAlister didn’t get the memo.”
“Any time you feel like coming back to Washington, you let me know. I’ll find a place for you.”
“I’ll take a hard pass on that,” Underhill said. “Selling cheap beer to some Wall Street fat cat is still better than licking boots in Washington.”
Blunt chuckled. “The Swamp Fox has spoken.”
Underhill grinned. “I know you gave me that nickname after your favorite American military leader, but you’re the one who’s more deserving of it.”
“Why’s that?”
“You faked your own death in broad daylight. I even went to your funeral.”
“I know,” Blunt said. “I heard everything you said about me. You were quite kind.”
“It’s bad luck to speak ill of the dead—even when they’re not.”
Blunt chuckled. “Why don’t I buy one of those overpriced beers of yours and tell you what the afterlife is like.”
“You’re gonna tell me about Hell?”
“You’ve lived in Washington and been around all those bureaucrats. I think you already know what Hell is like.”
Underhill smiled wryly. “You have a good point.”
Once they hit the open water, Underhill attacked the waves, his boat jarring as it absorbed each one. But after they were about five miles out at sea, Underhill throttled back on the engine.
“Is this where all the magic happens?” Blunt asked.
“If catching an eight hundred pound marlin constitutes magic, then, yeah, this is the place.”
Blunt took one of the rods and baited his hook. He heaved the line out into the water and started to slowly reel. Underhill hopped onto the seat next to Blunt and cracked open a can before handing it to him.
“Thank you, sir,” Blunt said.
“So, J.D., tell me what you’re really doing out here. I know fishing isn’t really your thing. Not enough mystery or violence for your taste.”
Blunt scowled. “What are you talking about? I love the open sea.”
“Only when it provides cover for you. Otherwise, you’re a dyed-in-the-wool landlubber.”
“A lesser man might be offended by that comment.”
Underhill sighed. “Just tell me why you’re here.”
Blunt finished reeling in his line before he got up and lumbered over to his bag. He unzipped it and grabbed a folder for Underhill.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“I need some answers,” Blunt said.
Underhill opened the file and started studying the images inside. “What am I looking at?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
Underhill glanced up at Blunt. “This appears to be a tattoo of some sort on a dead man’s arm.”
Blunt nodded at the documents. “Keep looking.”
Underhill flipped through the pages for a minute, his eyes widening as he studied some of the murder scenes. When he was finished, he closed the folder and handed it back to Blunt.
“You’re on a fishing expedition here, aren’t you?”
Blunt chuckled. “Quite literally.”
Underhill furrowed his brow as he stared out across the water. “You know what I mean. This isn’t some mystery that just needs solving, is it?”
“Look, I don’t know what’s going on. I just got this file from a friend of mine who asked me to look into it. He said none of the agencies were investigating it for some odd reason.”
“All I can tell you is that you’re about to step in some deep shit with those guys.”
Blunt locked eyes with Underhill. “So you do know something, don’t you?”
“I recognized a couple of the names. And all I can tell you is that the three names I recognized were rogue operators.”
“Meaning what exactly?”
“They didn’t always follow their commander. Damn good shots, every one of them. But if they got a bug up their ass about something, you couldn’t exactly count on them.”
“Why is someone systematically killing them?”
Underhill shrugged. “I can’t be sure of anything. I don’t know even know what the tattoo means. But I would strongly suggest you drop this. There’s only one place this leads, and you don’t want to be anywhere close to it.”
“I have people who are more than capable of handling whatever needs to be done.”
“Like I said, J.D., I don’t know exactly who is behind this, but with all of those guys involved, I’m betting it’s a purging, the kind that’s unsightly and unseemly but necessary. It’s also the kind you wouldn’t want to do yourself.”
Blunt cocked his head to one side and eyed Underhill closely. “Are you involved in any of this?”
“I operate a charter fishing boat in the Keys. You think I want that kind of trouble in my life?”
Blunt grabbed Underhill’s arm and pushed up the sleeve on his jacket.
“What are you doing?” Underhill asked.
Blunt twisted Underhill’s wrist just enough to get a glimpse of the location where all the other tattoos appeared on the deceased Rangers. There wasn’t anything there.
“You think I’m one of them, don’t you?” Underhill asked as he withdrew.
Blunt sighed. “I’m sorry. It’s just that—” He paused for a moment, unsure of what to say next that could simmer Underhill’s rising anger.
“What is it, J.D.? If you have something to say to me, better just spit it out.”
“I’m not gonna leave this alone,” Blunt said. “If you know something, you better say it now.”
“I wish I could help you, but I’m afraid you’ve wasted your time if you came down here just for this.”
Blunt cursed under his breath as he crammed the file back into his bag. “Might as well make the best of this then.”
Underhill cracked a faint smile. “In that case, you better get your bait out in the water. The fish aren’t exactly going to jump in the boat while you swill your beer.”
Blunt picked up his rod and cast the line over the side. He was certain Underhill wasn’t forthcoming with the truth. After a half-hour of silence, Blunt stood and told Underhill to return to the dock.
“But you still have another three hours of my time,” Underhill countered.
Blunt grunted as he clipped the end of a fresh cigar. “I’ve got more important things to do.”
* * *
ONCE BLUNT LUMBERED away from the boat, Clyde Underhill ducked below deck and retrieved his burner cell phone. He dialed a number and then headed up the stairs. He watched Blunt exit through a gate and enter the parking lot.
Finally, a man answered. “Well, to what do I owe the pleasure of hearing from The Undertaker this fine morning?”
“This isn’t time for joking around, Mullens,” Underhill said. “You’ve got some serious problems headed your way.”
“Somebody didn’t have their coffee this morning.”
“I’m not kidding. You’re about to get broadsided if you aren’t careful.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. What are you talking about, kemosabe?”
“I just hosted one of Washington’s best intelligence minds on my fishing charter, and he’s intent on overturning every rock until he learns what that tattoo on your arm means.”
Rip Mullens laughed. “You could’ve told him that. I was drunk one night and foolishly got the initials of a fair maiden from Japan etched onto my skin.”
“If you’re determined to make a big joke of this, you’re going to regret it.”
“Okay, okay. I get it. This is serious. What did he say?”
“He’s trying to find a link between all these dead Army Rangers who have this tattoo on their forearm, the one just like you have.”
“Wait. Did you say dead Army Rangers?”
“Now I’ve got your attention.”
“What the hell, Undertaker? You are serious, aren’t you?”
“Serious as a roadside IED on the highway to Kandahar. Now you want to tell me what your little club is all about?”
“I’d rather not put you in the crosshairs, too.”
“Come on, Mullens. Tell me what you’ve been up to because I’m sure it’s not good.”
Mullens sighed. “I don’t have the time, and you probably don’t have the constitution to hear it either.”
“You know I can take it.”
“No, brother. You’d probably want to kill me yourself if I told you. Ciao.”
Mullens hung up, prompting Underhill to redial the number. This time, the call went straight to voicemail.
CHAPTER 5
Tangiers, Morocco
BLACK LEANED AGAINST the rail on the veranda overlooking the Strait of Gibraltar. The wind whipped across the water, producing choppy waves that troubled the sailboats in the cove below. For the past two days, he had been at Blunt’s house in Morocco, mulling over the events in Yemen while Shields recovered from her poisoning.
